Spinster

Warning: This post isn’t going to be lighthearted or funny or amusing, so if you’re looking for any of those things, you should probably stop reading now.

I just finished reading Kay Redfield Jamison’s An Unquiet Mind, in which she chronicles her experiences with manic-depression. I’ve read a lot of books, both fiction and non-fiction, about personality and mood disorders over the years, and this is one of the best. Personality disorders are interesting from a psychological and social perspective, but mood disorders are directly related to my life. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to blog about this or not, but then I figured that since I’m not ashamed of it, I might as well.

I’ve been dealing with depression and anxiety since I was 13 and have been on Effexor, an anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medication, for over a year now. I’ve hated myself and my life, and have wanted to kill myself or have wanted to die, at various times in the past ten or so years. I’ve seen several psychologists and psychiatrists, though I finally agreed to be medicated only a year ago, partly at the insistence of my mother, and partly because I was finally ready. With my latest psychiatrist at U of T, I started cognitive behavioral therapy, which is designed to give the patient control over their own self-destructive thoughts. It was important to me to do something other than just take a pill every day; I wanted to play an active role in my own recovery. So far, so good–I feel better than I have in years, and have started to slowly break down the poison of my thoughts.

In An Unquiet Mind, Jamison details an illness far more severe than anything I’ve lived through. I have never experienced mania, nor depression to the depths she describes in the book. I’ve never attempted suicide. Even though this isn’t covered by Jamison, I wanted to mention it anyway–I don’t have schizophrenia, for which I am eternally grateful.

However, I know what it feels like to wake up in the morning, every morning, and feel that there is absolutely no point, no point whatsoever, in starting the day, because there is no point whatsoever in even being alive. I know what it feels like to inflict pain on yourself because it is the only emotion you are capable of feeling and the only emotion you are worthy of feeling. I know what it feels like to fall apart and not be able to pick up the pieces; to being on the brink of something so black and deep that it doesn’t have a name.

As much as someone can be, I think that I was born ready to be depressed and anxious. Aside from having both depression and alcoholism in my family, I have it on good authority that I was a difficult baby. In fact, my mother originally thought that she wanted five kids, like her own mother, but after she had me she had to be coaxed into even trying for my brother. I cried constantly, all the time, for no reason. The doctor told my mom that I had excess energy that needed to be burned off, and crying was the only way I had to release this energy. He said, just put her down in her crib and walk away. Don’t pick her up, don’t respond to her, and soon she’ll wear herself out and fall asleep.

After I grew out of this crabby babyhood, I think that my young childhood was pretty easy–a respite before the turbulence of adolescence. I suppose I was a happy enough kid, and I don’t really remember being particularly moody. I know that I was very sensitive–I cried at the drop of a hat, at the smallest of criticisms. I still have very thin skin. My outer shell is cynicism and flippancy, but it’s so thin. You have no idea.

When I got a bit older, the proverbial shit hit the fan. In 1992, Hurricane Andrew devastated Miami, and two weeks after the hurricane, I got my first period and our house burned down. I was 11 and going into sixth grade. My family and I lived in a trailer on our property, next to the charred shell of our old house, and this is where my mom and I waged war on one another. The trailer became a battleground, and we screamed at each other before I went to school in the morning and when I returned in the afternoon. I can only imagine the shock of my adolescence to my parents. I went from being an A and B student to almost failing algebra; I changed from a swan into an ugly duckling in the space of a year: I went from being a cute kid with clear skin and long blond hair to some pretty serious skin problems and the world’s most awful haircut; I went from having a stable, if sensitive, disposition, to having a mercurial, volatile, angry one.

In eighth grade, I would sit in my room, listen to Nirvana, and cut myself. I would write suicide notes. I would stare into the flickering flames of candles and wonder why the hell I’d ever been born. In ninth grade I learned how to drink. Alcohol was, and to some extent is, the great social lubricant, and probably one of the only things that allowed me to survive social interactions as a teenager. I was prone to panic attacks around boys and unfamiliar situations, and when you’re boy-crazy and into the underground punk scene in a strictly dance-music city, there are plenty of boys and unfamiliar situations to be had.

Still, I somehow managed to emerge from all of this relatively unscathed. After middle school, my grades improved and in high school I was in mostly honors and AP classes. I stopped cutting myself. I stopped writing suicide notes. I didn’t stop drinking but neither did I develop a habit. I can’t say I stopped listening to Nirvana, but some things aren’t likely to change.

I’m not sure that I’m ready to write about my problems with depression and anxiety in college and post-graduation, so I’ll save those for another day. Suffice it to say that eventually, I moved home before my mom came out to Oregon and physically removed me, so unable was I to deal with my emotional problems.

I don’t think that I will ever be 100% depression and/or anxiety free. I think that these are part of me, part of my personality, and have been part of my genetic makeup probably since I was conceived. For the longest time, the knowledge that I would never be “shiny happy people” has haunted me, has made me doubt myself, has scared me into believing that I will never be a worthwhile, productive member of society, into believing that I will, inevitably, die alone.

Jamison, in An Unquiet Mind, rails against the assumption that all depression, all mania, is bad. On the subject of whether prenatal genetic testing for a pre-disposition to manic-depression be made available to expectant parents, she writes,
Clearly, if better and earlier diagnosis and more specific, less troublesome treatments result from the ongoing genetic research, then the benefits to individuals who have manic-depressive illness, to their families, and to society will be extraordinary…But what are the dangers of prenatal diagnostic testing? Will prospective parents choose to abort fetuses that carry the genes for manic-depressive illness, even though it is a treatable disease?…Do we risk making the world a blander, more homogenized place if we get rid of the genes for manic-depressive illness–an admittedly impossibly complicated scientific problem? What are the risks to the risk takers, those restless individuals who join with others in society to propel the arts, business, politics, and science? (p. 193-194)

I love this. I love it. Why do I have to be perfectly balanced, perfectly stable, each moment of each day of my life? What would the world be like if we were all perfectly balanced? How many artists and musicians and politicians and religious leaders would we be missing if manic-depression and other mood disorders didn’t exist? How much of what makes me unique, what makes me me, would be taken away if my depression and anxiety were to disappear? Would I lose my innate connection with animals if I didn’t suffer from depression? Would I stop being creative? Would I stop writing? Would I stop being able to appreciate the beauty of stillness, of solitude, of peace? I’m glad I started taking Effexor; I’m glad I started cognitive behavioral therapy. I don’t want to hate myself. I don’t want to be unhappy. Part of that is accepting that I have depression and anxiety, that those disorders come with problems, to be sure, but isn’t part of it accepting that those disorders have given me creativity and writing, sensitivity and empathy?

People amaze me sometimes.

Wow. That might be the first time I’ve said or written that sentence and not meant it in a negative way. Normally I say that before launching into a rant about how someone or other has managed to step on my proverbial toes, but not this time.

I wear my love for knitting on my sleeve; that’s no secret, right? I guess it never occurred to me that some people might be a little bit more private about their craft.

One of my co-workers, a fellow student named Lisa, is one of those people.

I always knew that Lisa was creative and had artistic sensibilities—you can tell just by looking at her, and certainly after talking to her, like, once. She dresses well, and her clothes are classic, which some people might read as boring, but because she is tall and thin her clothes always look great on her. (Sometimes I hate her for it, but don’t tell her that.) She’s a vegetarian, her boyfriend is El Senor Rock Star, and she’s quietly subversive. Those things are all pretty obvious, and she shares them with glee.

So, I kind of thought it was strange that Lisa was creative and artsy, yet didn’t really seem to have an artistic or crafty passion. I was SO wrong: apparently, Lisa is a bead slut of epic proportions.

She makes jewellery, and I’m not talking about hemp and fimo or long strands of seed beads (although those are fine, too). I’m talking gorgeous three-strand necklaces hand-crafted from semi-precious stones, interspersed with delicate sterling silver beads; bracelets composed of turquoise or labradorite or malachite, with hand-twisted silver wire attachments. She brought in a few of her pieces this morning, and I about died. The talent that girl has is incredible.



She clearly has an eye for color, and I love that she doesn’t cheap out—she uses expensive, stunning stones and glass beads without worrying about the cost. She doesn’t sell her items (although she could, and should, and I’m working on it!). She keeps them for herself or gives them away to friends, and I think that that’s the mark of a true craftswoman. Lisa’s not in it for the money or the admiration of her less-talented peers; she makes jewellery because she loves it and because she appreciates fine things and the work that goes into making them.

As I said, people amaze me sometimes.

You know how great it feels to see a really good friend after not having seen them for a long time? And how the absence hasn’t forced the two of you any further apart emotionally? And how it’s totally possible to absolutely know that you’re going to have a wonderful time with them without having to hope for it? That was my weekend.

Aundra and I have been friends since freshman year of college but didn’t get super-close until our junior year. We’d been close at the end of our freshman year and the beginning of our sophomore year (second year for you Canadians), but a series of unfortunate boy-related circumstances–and one rather doubtful living situation–eroded our friendship. A couple of weird betrayals by a friend and a rainy Sunday knitting session later, we were back in business, and we really haven’t quit since. Sometimes I don’t even know how two totally different people are such good friends, but we manage to make it work.

Anyway, this weekend was crazy fun. Friday night was our only really debaucherous night but damn, it felt good. I’m not gonna mention any names, but suffice it to say that Aundra, Stephanie and I had a great time. Liquor-stealing, picking up boys, getting yelled at by bitchy Amazons, befriending a bachelorette, getting kicked out of the bar… all in a night’s work. The boys in question were ex-Army guys, hotties all and delightfully tattooed. Since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell you a charming story about the run-in with the Amazon.

My guy, Pete, and I had left our group’s spot by the bar to go somewhere and make out (me: “Do you wanna make out with me or Aundra? Cause if you wanna make out with her, why are you talking to me?” Him: “No, I wanna make out with you. Let’s go.”) We’d found a spot by the stairs and were making good use of it when Aundra came bounding up. Someone, either her or Pete, gave me a flower which I put in my hair. I think that Aundra and I probably hugged or something, and I accidentally bumped into the 8-foot-tall brunette Amazon standing next to me. She gave me a withering stare.

Me: Can I help you?

Her: You touched my back.

[Me, thinking: Um, hi? Were you somehow under the impression that bars are barren of people? When I think of a bar on a Friday night near a university, I don't exactly assume three feet of personal space at all times. And shit, it's not like I grabbed your breasts or something.]

Me, my voice dripping with sarcasm: Ohhhhhh. I’m so sorry.

Her: Nice flower.

Ok. If you’re going to be an uber-bitch and get pissed at someone for bumping into you in a bar, you might want to think of more insulting comments than that. I just smiled and said as perkily as I know how, “Thanks! Glad you like it!” Pete then dragged me back over to the bar cause she was scary tall and he didn’t want to watch me die at the hands of a mutant.

Anyway, it was a great night and a great weekend. I was really sad to say goodbye to Aundra today, cause it’s been a year since we’ve seen each other. It’s tough when your best friend lives on the other side of the country. Or I suppose now it’s continent.

So, first of all, Aundra is here visiting me. For the weekend. She and I have been friends since our freshman year of college, since we were 18, and she is one of my favorite people on earth. You know how much of a stickler I am about spelling and grammar? And you know how she can’t spell to save her life (this is the girl who once thought “of” was spelled “ove.” That’s right–she misspelled a 2-letter word)? Well, I am actually willing to overlook her amazing spelling inability WITHOUT being remotely bitchy or judgmental about it. That’s how much I love this girl. So that fact that she’s here ALL WEEKEND and I got to take today off work means that I’m happier than a pig in shit.

Still, when things annoy, one must blog. I’m reading Martini Boys, trying to find a good place to go tonight, and I came across an article about a bar that was decorated to look like a ’70s bachelor pad. Now, there ain’t nothing I like more than anything retro, so I read on. The article mentions the design firm that decorated the bar, which brings me to Pet Peeeve (of the day) Number One:

*Capital letters exist for a reason. Use them. I don’t care how goddamn fabulous you think you are, how many times you’ve been featured in I.D. or Wallpaper or Architecture for Hipsters (I made that one up), you still have to use capital letters, lest some unsuspecting reader happen upon this sentence:
“Continuing to work with munge/leung: design associates…” and think that the writers of the article were trying to spell “mange” but put a U in instead of an A. I seriously HATE companies that don’t capitalize the first letter of their name. And poets. e.E. e. E. cCummings, you’re so on my shit list.

*While we’re on the subject of people who think they are cool demonstrating their coolness through punctuation, the proper way to write out a phone number isn’t, and has never been, 666. 666.6666
Periods are not dashes, ok?

*The other thing that annoys that I thought of yesterday, is people who clip their cell phones to their belts. Or wear them in those cell phone protector things on their belts. Or whatever. If you have pockets put it in your goddamn pocket. 10 bucks says you’re not so important that the person calling you is going to freak out if you pick up on the second ring (or second rendition of Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal) instead of the first due to the delay that inevitably results from taking your phone out of your pocket. The worst offenders? Guys who wear jeans AND their cell phones clipped to their belts. Fucking losers.

Ok, that’s it. Must go be happy now!

Don’t you love the one-handed self-portrait? This is my cotton sweater from Rebecca and it’s coming along pretty well, if I do say so myself. And I do. I think I should make that clear–so far, this project is progressing swimmingly. It’s simple, maybe some would say simplistic, but sometimes I think that, in my desire to make a sweater or whatever it is look impressive, I forget how pleasing simplicity can be. Clean lines, pretty waist shaping

and yarn that makes me rethink my oft-professed hatred of cotton. What more could a knitter ask for?

Here’s to hoping it continues in this vein!

So, a few weeks ago I got summoned to appear for jury duty in Miami. Obviously, since I’m in Toronto, I wasn’t exactly able to appear. I’ve been called for jury duty several times, but I’ve never attended cause I’ve always been away at school. The other times, my mom took care of it for me. I like to think that she waved her magic Mom Wand and made everything ok. For some reason, she decided that this time I’d have to handle it myself. Maybe it’s cause I’m 25. Could be, but who knows. Anyway, she sent me the summons and I filled out the “unable to appear” box, or whatever it was, and attached a letter explaining that I’m studying in Canada and not only will I not be able to show up for jury duty, I’m also unable to provide a date at which I will be available, as I do not foresee returning to Miami in the near future.

Apparently, that wasn’t good enough for the kind people of the courthouse, as they sent me—and by me, I mean my parents, as even though I gave them my address here, they sent me this piece of mail at my parents’ house—a notice saying that they would need more information to process my request. I was then instructed to call them between the highly convenient hours of 10 am and 4 pm, Tuesday through Friday. It just so happens that I have this thing called a job, and lo and behold, it’s pretty much a 9-5, Monday through Friday kind of thing. I could make a long-distance phone call from work, but I’m not going to, on principle. The way I see it, they should be so desperate to get people in there for jury duty, they should be bending over and letting us, the good responsible citizens of the world, give it to them any way we want. If I want to find out about fulfilling my civic duty at—gasp!—6 pm on a Monday evening, after I’ve returned from work, I should be able to speak to someone at that time. Not gonna bend over for me? I’m not gonna bend over for you!

Instead of calling them, I’m sending them a letter in my most snotty, pretentious office-speak. I loooove writing letters like this. Where else do you get to use the phrase “in lieu of” other than an obituary? This is an occasion, an opportunity to pull out the old thesaurus and brush up on long-forgotten SAT words. You know that the person reading it
a) won’t be able to make heads or tails of it and
b) won’t care in the slightest, so you should…

c) have a little bit of fun with it.

So far, this is my favourite sentence:
“I was instructed to telephone the courthouse office between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. and furnish you with further details regarding my situation; however, these times are inconvenient, as I am at work during the day and it is difficult for me to place long-distance phone calls at my office.”

The thing about these letters is that you have to make them sound hideously snotty without over-exaggerating. Like, if I wanted to be too obvious about it, I would have written this:
“I was commanded to ring the courthouse office between the hours of 10 o’ clock ante meridiem and 4 o’ clock post meridiem [or, for even further hijinks, “ten of the clock ante meridiem and four of the clock post meridiem”, but I think that would, perhaps, be taking things too far, no?] and furnish you with auxiliary details regarding the circumstances of my educational pursuits; unfortunately, these temporal junctures are vexing unsuitable [here I had a real tough time letting go of “vexing,” which is attractive for its Shakespearean quality, and “unsuitable,” which, in the end, drives home the fact that these hours are ludicrous], as I find myself at work during the daylight hours, and it is most inappropriate for me to place long-distance telephone calls at my office.”

Man, this is SO much fun.

Does it creep anyone else out that Frances Bean Cobain is almost 14 years old?

She’s older now than I was when her dad killed himself–and she wasn’t even two at the time. I remember when Kurt Cobain died I wondered what would become of his daughter. There are very few celebrity children that I actually give a shit about but Frances Bean Cobain is one of them. I LOVED Nirvana in a way that I haven’t loved a band before or since. I lived and breathed their music, although I was just starting to listen to them when he died. Grunge had such a huge influence on my life as a teenager and I could relate to it more than any of the other musical trends of the time (gangsta rap, anyone?). Kurt was pretty fucked up though, and Courtney Love is…interesting…and I sort of thought FB would maybe inherit some of that self-destructiveness.

However, I hoped that FB would somehow emerge from the drama of her early life relatively unscathed, and it appears that she has. I was reading a couple of interview with her, and she seems to be a pretty well-adjusted 13-year-old. Which is good. Maybe Courtney Love’s crazy sheltering of her daughter has actually paid off.

Still, it’s crazy to see pictures of Frances Bean. (Frances? Bean? Not sure what to call her.) She is the spitting image of her father.

This is what today looked like

The past few days have been amazing: the air has been cool, the sun has been shining, and the sky is blue blue blue. No humidity. What a relief from the heat wave! Too bad my mood hasn’t been as good as the weather. Nothing specific is wrong; work is fine, life is fine, etc. I’ve just been feeling melancholy lately, and I think part of it is that I just don’t really feel like I live here. Which is weird, considering that I do, for now, and considering that I’ve been here for a while. Maybe I’m just restless, I don’t know.

Anyway. I bought some really pretty cotton/wool yarn a couple of weeks ago with the intention of making some kind of sweater. Cotton has always been my knitting nemesis, but I’ve got very sensitive skin and was tired of itching all the time, so I decided to give it another go. The yarn is Cascade Sierra Quatro, number 82; it’s a marled yarn with four plied strands of pink, green, pale blue, and the palest lavender (I didn’t even notice that there was any purple in it until I looked very closely). I decided on this sweater:

It’s from Rebecca 31, pattern 27. I had started knitting it in the flat, as per the pattern, and then I saw this version on Juju Strickt. It’s absolutely gorgeous and I love everything about it. It’s knit in the round which I’ve never done before (seamless sweater, not circular knitting), and I emailed the knitter/blogger, asking her how she converted the pattern, which is for a sweater knitted in the flat, to circular. She was very kind and emailed me back with instructions.

I immediately cast on and this is what I have so far:

The pattern calls for the ribbing at the bottom to be knitted on smaller needles, which I didn’t have. I made up for it by knitting in the English style, holding the yarn in my right hand. This is how I learned to knit, and how I always used to knit until I taught myself Continental. Now I can do both, but I prefer Continental. Anyway, my English knitting is pretty tight, so I just knitted the ribbing using the English method, then switched when I got to the stockinette stitch. (I’m very, very proud of my cleverness.)
Here you can see the ribbing:

Here’s a close-up of the “seam,” where the sides would be joined if I was knitting them in the flat. I am doing waist shaping, so this picture shows the decreases:

In other fiber news, there has been an unfortunate set-back with the Pistachio Aran. After sewing together the shoulder seams and realizing that the side cabley guys didn’t match up, I consulted with my roommate. At first I was going to just rip it back to the armhole decreases and knit up the rest a bit differently, but after Lorien and I looked at it closely, it was brought to my attention that I would actually have to pull out one entire side and re-knit it so that it’s the reverse of the other side. That didn’t make sense, did it? When I first knit the front and back, I knit them exactly the same. However, when placed back-to-back, they are not mirror images of each other. So against all of my laziness and slacker wisdom, I decided to frog away and redo it. I actually don’t feel that badly about it, cause I think it’ll look better in the end, and if I’m gonna put in the energy to make something, it might as well look good, right?

When I first came here one weekend last August, I was looking for an apartment and a job. Having found both–or having at least made steps toward finding both–I took myself on a little tour of Toronto’s yarn shops. I feel that a city’s yarn stores say a lot about it: Portland is teeming with places to fondle yarn and fiber, mostly of the natural variety (you’re not gonna find much glittery shiny acrylic there!); one could say that they were down-to-earth, no-nonsense and natural, kind of like Portlanders and the city itself. Miami’s one LYS is the polar opposite–it is all glittery, shiny acrylic yarns, a decent selection of cotton and, tucked in the way back, a smattering of Noro and Lamb’s Pride. Kind of like Miami–lots of style and very little substance.

After almost a year here, it’s time to consider the question, what do Toronto’s yarn stores say? I’ve never been disappointed by a lack of selection at the LYSs. It’s just that I’m not sure what that selection means. For a city that is so bitterly cold in the winter (so I’ve heard, at least; last year was pretty mild), there seems to be an awful lot of cotton. There’s an abundance of gorgeous hand-painted yarn (Fleece Artist and Hand Maiden, I’m looking at you) but, when turned into the inevitable shawl or scarf, it would only get hidden under my peacoat/winter jacket and that is a shame (though perhaps others are more adventurous in their fall and winter wardrobes than I am, and so allow their scarves some freedom; I’m usually too concerned about them getting blown away by the wind to allow that). What’s up with the contradictions?

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One complaint I do have about one particular LYS is the attitude of the employees. Much like at bookstores and record stores, yarn store staff must be knowledgeable about their craft and the store’s wares and, at the same time, have a tolerance for low pay and customer service. I worked at a bookstore; I know what a pain in the ass it is to be expected to have read every single volume in the place, work shitty hours for no money, and deal with annoying customers. I know that. However. I would like to take this opportunity to state that, just because my job was frustrating and, at times, I wanted to kill customers/my coworkers/my boss, does not mean that I was patronizing or condescending to people because of it. If someone’s idea of a great read is the Shopaholic series, I’ll recommend Bridget Jones’s Diary. If a customer loved Painting the Map Red: The Fight to Create a Permanent Republican Majority, why, they’d just inhale Ann Coulter’s latest. My point is, even though I sometimes thought our customers’ reading choices were abominable does not mean that I felt the right or the need to treat them with disrespect.

Anyway.

Today, Lorien, her mom, and I went to an LYS that we’ll call Corriedale. This store is known for its comprehensive selection, which really is pretty hard to beat. However, most of the times that I’ve gone there, and from what I understand, most of the times that Lorien’s gone there, the service has been seriously below par. They have it totally made, though, cause they aren’t rude enough for someone to actually call them on it. It’s more of a tone of voice than nasty words. The store owner and a man who I suppose is the store manager both have shitty attitudes. No question has ever been answered with anything even approaching respect, that I’ve ever heard. Cheerfulness? Forget it. Service with a smile? Not likely.

Um, to get to the point. Lorien’s mom saw a pattern online that she loved but wasn’t able to purchase the pattern separately from the yarn, and the whole thing was in British pounds and was from a Rowan designer, so it was pretty expensive. At first, we were just looking for a similar pattern. One of the store’s employees assisted us, and she was actually quite helpful. She recommended a couple of magazines, then went through the loose patterns, trying to find something suitable. Even though we didn’t find anything, it was great that she actually tried.

Meanwhile, as she was in the middle of answering Lorien’s question the guy who I think is the manager actually yelled across the store to her, “Hey _______, when are you gonna take your break?” Ok. First rule of customer service: when one of your clerks is busy assisting someone, DO NOT interrupt them. And with an inane question. And by yelling. Just don’t do it.

Then, as we were standing near the checkstand a bit later, an older woman came in with a ball of black yarn that someone had purchased for her from the sale room. The yarn had been missing a ball band and so the customer was unable to identify it, but she needed more to complete her project. The employee (not the same one who helped us) asked if she’d already looked in the sale room for more, and when the woman said she hadn’t, the employee directed her downstairs to another Corriedale employee. At first, I thought it was because the first employee was busy and wrongly assumed that she was going to help us next, but as soon as the customer walked away, she turned to run off to the back of the store. This isn’t that bad of an infraction, I suppose, but I can’t help thinking that, instead of sending the customer off on her own, she could’ve just taken the two minutes to walk her downstairs, find the other employee or, if that person was busy, she could’ve helped the woman find the yarn herself. At Books & Books, we were expected to actually physically SHOW our customers the section or the exact book they were looking for, and I can’t say it ever hurt me to do so. Even if I had to pass the person off to one of my coworkers, I would walk the customer over to them. People seemed to really appreciate the attention, especially if they were in a hurry, and our store had a reputation of great customer service.

Ok. Back to Corriedale. At the end, I was explaining to this manager person, who I have dealt with before and have never really liked, that we were trying to figure out how much of a certain yarn we would need to create a cardigan that we’d seen online, but we unfortunately didn’t have the measurements. I wasn’t really expecting him to pull the answer out of his ass or anything, but he asked if we needed help so I explained. He was slouching behind the counter, leaning on it with his chin propped up on his hand, and he explained to me how to substitute one yarn for another. Complete with the whole “You read the pattern and find out how many yards of yarn it takes, then you pick out a different yarn, figure out how many yards you get per skein, then divide the number of total yards per project by the number of yards per skein” routine. In a ridiculously patronizing voice, like he was talking to a toddler. I might be taking this a bit personally, but dude? Seriously? I KNOW how to substitute yarn. Believe me, I’m cheaper than you could ever imagine, not to mention more creative, and I will do anything to avoid spending my hard-earned money on $15-a-skein yarn by Insert Name of Big Yarn Manufacturer Here.

I guess I’m just sick of dealing with people who obviously hate their customers. I can understand that it’s difficult to deal with problem people, but there are certain things you just don’t do when you work in customer service. I mean, I compare this experience with my visit to Knit-O-Matic a couple of weeks ago, where the store owner was incredibly helpful and nice and showed me some of her favorite new patterns, and I ended up spending over $100 on yarn, which I never do, and I wonder why I even bother with Corriedale.

1. I am seriously having an awesome hair day. Apparently, no humidity combined with actually washing my hair (but still not blow-drying it cause I am lazy) equals great hair.

2. Naps. 2 hour naps plus 7 hours of sleep at night equals I can function like a normal human being.

3. Takeout Chinese food. Sesame chicken and spring rolls. I heart you to pieces.

4. My new mature mindset. Since yesterday evening when I decided that the only solution to my Pistachio Aran woes was to frog one side and reknit it so that it matches the other, I have felt much more mature, because instead of just bitching about something, I am actually fixing a problem.

5. Seamless raglan sweaters. Which is what my cotton sweater will become once I’ve ripped out what I’ve done so far.

6. Weekends.

7. The t-shirt I’m wearing today. It’s pink, has a skull and two guitars crossed behind it, and on the bottom it says, “Chase the dream, live for rock!” And I totally didn’t get it at American Eagle; it’s from a thrift store in New Orleans.

8. David Attenborough’s Life in the Undergrowth series. I watched the episode on spiders last night. So. Freakin. Cool.

9. My friend Aundra. For our impending 5:00 conversation.

10. Coffee. Which I am now going to get.